


Sorry, But I Actually Ordered A Venti?

by AutumnHobbit



Series: Dying from the exit wounds [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted-sibling relationship, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Crack Treated Somewhat Seriously, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10402686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: "Uh. Hey, Damian?"Damian glanced up from his phone. "What.""You want to help me feel better?""No." Damian said, unmoved, looking back at his phone.Dang. Worded that wrong. Tim ran the sentiment through his internal Damian translator and tried again. "Do you want me to recover well without any long-lasting complications?"Damian glanced up again. One eyebrow rose sardonically. "That depends," he said smoothly, but Tim took the win because he was now showing interest. "What does it involve, and how much trouble will I be in with Pennyworth?"________Tim ropes Damian into doing him a favor while he recovers. Follow up toDying from the exit wounds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. Awhile ago an anon gave me a fic title to come up with a scenario for. I had no idea what to do for it because I'm not a coffee drinker and it made me automatically think of coffee-shop aus. But once I came up with a scenario, I just had to write it because I will never have enough of these two. So. Enjoy.

It was a truth universally acknowledged, that within nine days of being shot in the chest, three of which were miserable and hazy to recall, the last two of which had been unbearably smothering and _boring_ , one wanted coffee.

(So what. He was paraphrasing. The book was stupidly old and he'd only read it once, anyway.)

But Tim could only take so much of Jason sitting at his bedside and snarling wordlessly every time he scratched at his stitches or fiddled with his IV tube, Stephanie playing with his hair (well.....admittedly that wasn't _so_ bad) while prattling on about school and the weather and the latest nail polish she and Cass had been experimenting with, Bruce coming in and checking his IV and the like two seconds after Alfred had and wandering out with a gentle pat to Tim's shoulder, and Cass just sitting beside him for hours, silently rubbing his head.

(Okay. He felt kinda bad for worrying her. Cassie got a pass. Because she was pure and good. Unlike the others.)

And he could only take so much of Damian being so..... _whack._

He just...sat there. And stared. Every time Tim so much as twitched or groaned in pain---which was kinda often, considering the three-inch-wide bruise surrounding the hole in between his ribs which went all the way through him---Damian's head snapped up and he stared, eyes wide, with what Tim would almost call fear if he believed the little brat to be capable of it.

(But no, he had to stop thinking that way. He knew Damian could be scared. There was still a hint of it in his glazed-over eyes as he'd been covered with a sheet. It had been there when they got him back and he looked around and noticed Dick wasn't there. It had been there when Tim could barely see for the pain, and he'd slipped up next to the gurney, pressed into Jason and unblinking.)

And all of that would have been more than enough to deal with anyway, but on top of that he was dying for coffee and Alfred wouldn't let him have it. He supposed the others figured he couldn't handle much eating when he was still on oxygen from the stupid frickin itchy cannula in his nose, and they were probably right. He was also restricted to a solely liquid diet, anyway--which was a real drag because he would very nearly have killed for a slice of pizza--but Alfred was leaving it to broth and water and juice. And damnit, Tim had taken a bullet, and stayed alive through a grand total of seven fevers within the past five days, and valiantly endured his family's endless coddling, and _he wanted some motherfricking coffee._

That's when he got an idea. An awful idea. A wonderful, awful idea.

It came to him when he glanced over at Damian, who had been sitting beside his bed and playing on his phone while (poorly) hiding the fact that he was staring worriedly at Tim every few minutes when he thought Tim wasn't watching. Tim puzzled over the possible consequences, the ins and outs, and found there were pretty good odds of success. Of a sort. So, he cleared his throat and said, "Uh. Hey, Damian?"

Damian glanced up from his phone. "What."

"You want to help me feel better?"

"No." Damian said, unmoved, looking back at his phone.

Dang. Worded that wrong. Tim ran the sentiment through his internal Damian translator and tried again. "Do you want me to recover well without any long-lasting complications?"

Damian glanced up again. One eyebrow rose sardonically. "That depends," he said smoothly, but Tim took the win because he was now showing interest. "What does it involve, and how much trouble will I be in with Pennyworth?"

"If you're smart and stealthy, none," Tim said, being sure to make the challenge clear.

"Tt. Who are you speaking to, Drake?" Damian asked, stuffing his phone in his pocket. Once, Tim might have snarled at the haughty remark, but now he just grinned. "What is it you want me to smuggle for you?"

Tim took a deep breath. "Coffee." He said.

Damian stood. "Really," he said after a moment.

"Yes," Tim said, unflinching.

"You want me to risk Pennyworth's wrath, Father's wrath, you _actually getting sicker_ \--" Damian's voice did something funny rather than the incredulousness he was probably going for on that part, and he immediately cleared his throat and kept going, "--get everyone mad at me....for coffee."

Tim traced a fingernail on the rail of the bed sheepishly. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Why do you need it?" Damian cut in, sounding exasperated.

"I...don't _need_ it, per say, I just really want some." Tim said, letting his voice actually reflect his want for it. When Damian still didn't look impressed, he dipped his voice and said, "Plus, it's hard to sleep when you're in withdrawal."

Okay, that was a lie. He wasn't in withdrawal. Caffeine didn't affect him at all. If it had, he probably would have given up the stuff. But since he could physically drink all the coffee he wanted without any twitching or arrhythmia, he was darned well going to.

Damian didn't look convinced. "You haven't twitched once the entire time I've been here, and I can see your heart rate, remember?"

 _"Pleaaaaaase,_ Dames?" Tim begged. "I don't need it, I just want it, and I would get it myself if I could get up."

Damian's face fell a bit at that. Which...basically meant that his scowl faded ever so slightly and his expression suddenly looked hurt for all of ten seconds before it hardened again. _"Fine,"_ he spat, turning to go. "But let it never be said you were above emotional manipulation, Drake."

With that, the child whirled and stalked out of the room, and Tim arched an eyebrow in confusion as he watched him go. On the one hand, yay, he would get his coffee. But on the other.....the heck was _that?_ He puzzled over the exchange in his head, trying to figure out what got Damian so rattled. Not the lying about withdrawal, not the challenging, not the pleading....

Oh. Crud.

When he turned it over in his head a few times, he realized that the reminder of his injury could possibly be construed (by an abused and simultaneously sensitive and scared eleven-year-old) to be rubbing the facts of his condition in Damian's face.

Tim slumped against his pillows, tossing his head back in frustration. Oh, he had _not_ meant to do that. He didn't even actually blame Damian for what happened---he'd chosen to shield him, he'd done it to protect him, and if he were honest with himself he would 110% do it again if he had to---but the bit of manipulation had slipped out without his even thinking about it. Which wasn't good. It was a remnant of their prior relationship, wherein they both felt they had to resort to manipulation in order to get their way with the other. (Although in fairness, he would have to point out to Damian that he hadn't shown any interest in honoring Tim's request until that point.)

But still. Tim would have to apologize when Damian got back. Which he wasn't looking forward to. The few times he'd truly hurt Damian, it was hard to be mad at him because his whole personality seemed to change. He didn't seem larger-than-life or in control anymore. He seemed...

Like a kid. Which he was. Small and upset, and wanting comfort but unsure of where or how to get it, and assuming there was none for him.

Tim huffed, already exhausted. This whole _trying-to-be-a-decent-older-brother_ thing was hard.

And as it turned out, it had to get harder, because Tim lay there and nervously watched the clock as five, then ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes ticked by. He got worried enough to consider trying to call Damian, but didn't wind up doing so because some jerk had put his phone on the table to his right instead of his left, and attempting to stretch his right arm to reach the phone was...less than pleasant.

Forty-seven minutes after Damian had left, the vent in the ceiling twenty feet from Tim rattled, and he stared in shock and bewilderment as the vent cover slipped off and up into the pipe and Damian slid down on his grapple, a cup and saucer in his hand. He landed lightly on the floor, dusting himself off with a huff and checking to make sure there was no dust in the coffee. When he glanced up and saw Tim staring, he glowered.

"What?" He demanded, and Tim held his good hand up in surrender. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I was just....curious as to why you were rappelling down from the ceiling like Tom Cruise."

Damian huffed in frustration, unclipping his line from his grapple and walking towards Tim's bed. "Father and Todd were up there talking while Todd was cooking and Cain was between me and the door. I had no way of leaving with the coffee without being seen, so I was forced to resort to the vents. Then I discovered a family of bluejays in a nest that blocked most of a passage, so I had to extract the nest and safely move it to a suitable location before continuing on. And Father put up a filter in a few junctions that he did not feel inclined to tell me about." Damian scowled up at the ceiling as he said so, as if personally offended by the presence of the blockages.

"Um." Tim said eloquently, blinking. Damian rolled his eyes and thrust the cup at him, and Tim accepted it, wondering if the now-lukewarm coffee was contaminated with some rare form of bird-carried illness that would put the final nail in his metaphorical coffin. But at this point, he was too desperate to care, so he weakly pushed himself up into a half-sitting position on the pillows and took the cup from Damian and took a big gulp.

Tim had been through some shit in his life, which had somewhat hardened him to having a near-perpetual resting poker face. That alone saved him as his taste buds were overwhelmed with intense bitter flavor that burned in the back of his throat. But Damian was staring at him with slightly hopeful eyes---and damn if Tim had never noticed just _how_  soulful they were---so he swallowed thickly, kind of wanting to die.

"....S'good," he forced himself to say, his voice slightly higher and more choked than it should have been.

He relaxed just faintly when Damian's expression eased minutely, but then the boy promptly looked proud of himself. "It's a traditional Arabic blend from my home. I brought it with me."

"Uh huh," Tim said with great interest, nonchalantly placing the cup firmly on his bedside table. Aaaand now he knew why Ra's and Talia were homicidal maniacs. Maybe Damian wasn't being nice, after all.

But no. Tim banished that idea. Damian was trying to help, and even if the results weren't _exactly_ what Tim had wanted, this was more kindness than he could have ever imagined receiving from the younger boy a year ago. "Really, Dames," Tim said, and the boy looked up almost shyly. "Thanks."

Damian nodded silently, looking at the floor.

It was at that point that Alfred bustled in and gave Tim his latest dosage of painkillers...which Tim was immensely grateful for, as the pain in his chest had been growing steadily worse as time ticked by. However, the sudden relief made him realize how exhausted he was yet again (awaiting a coffee heist was stressful work, apparently,) so he fell asleep almost immediately afterwards.

When he woke, an uncertain amount of time later, his hazy eyes landed on Damian, still sitting stock still in the chair beside his bed, staring at his heart monitor, but with a look about him that Tim now understood. It meant he was very, very sleepy.

"Dames," Tim croaked, looking at the clock with a bit of alarm. "You haven't slept? Don't you have to go in a few hours?"

"Tt," Damian's favorite saying was more of a groan this time. He rubbed his small fists against his eyes.

Tim reached over with his good hand, patting Damian's knee. "Go to sleep in a bed," he said kindly.

Sluggishly, Damian pushed himself up out of the chair a little stiffly. He tottered up to the bed almost drunkenly, pawing at the side of the gurney before finding the control that lowered the side railing.

"...Dames?" Tim asked, a bit wary. "Damian, what are you doing?"

The child didn't respond, his hoodie sleeves flopping over his hands as he pulled himself up onto the gurney, slumping down and fumbling to hit the button again. He curled up in a tight ball on his side and folded his arms beneath his head.

"S'closer," he mumbled sleepily. "Can...sleep to a...satisfactory 'mount of...hours...."

Tim waited for a moment for the rest of the sentence. And waited. And waited. "Uh. Um. Dames?"

Nada.

Tentatively, Tim reached over, his hand hovering an inch above Damian. He very lightly poked his shoulder.

Nothing. He was ouuuuut.

Tim sighed. Well, he supposed if he was going to be stuck here beneath the assassin baby, he might as well make the best of it.  
So he settled back into his pillows again, and just lay there and stared up at the ceiling and listened to his brother's quiet breathing.

And if he let his hand rest atop Damian's head, well. It was a good thing the little snot was asleep and no one was watching.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr: autumnhobbit.tumblr.com


End file.
